


Concocted

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater, Soul Eater Not!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Bartenders, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Drunken Flirting, First Dates, Fluff, Hangover, M/M, Morning Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3470468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I bet I can guess your favorite drink.'" Clay meets the newest employee at his favorite bar and very rapidly gets in over his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



Clay is in trouble before he even tastes his first drink.

For once, it’s not his fault. Usually he’s the one to speak too fast, to trip over his tongue or blurt out a cheesy pick-up line that ruins his chances before he’s even introduced himself. But he’s ahead of the crowd, tonight, hovering at the edge of the bar considering the array of drinks with suggestive names on the menu overhead. He’s not looking at the smattering of customers that have gathered, is paying no attention at all to the bartenders behind the counter, so at first he doesn’t realize the words are directed at him.

“I bet I can guess your favorite drink.”

Clay looks down into the pause after the words, tips his chin down to meet the stare of one of the bartenders, a new employee he’s never seen before. The other’s concentrated gaze makes the subject of his comment clear, but in the first half-panicked moment the only thing Clay can think to say is, “Are you talking to me?”

The other’s smirk is something positively illegal. It twists up one corner of his mouth, curls shadows into his gaze as his chin tips down, and Clay has seen him for approximately two seconds but the expression the bartender gives the blond is enough to send Clay’s stomach swooping into freefall.

“No,” he says, turning away so for a moment Clay believes him. “I’m talking to the myriad of other customers we have waiting.”

It takes Clay a moment to pull his gaze away from the way the white shirt of the other’s uniform clings to his shoulders, the way the dark of his vest cuts cleanly along the line of the sleeves. Then he looks sideways, out across the bar empty of all but the persistent regulars, stares for a moment while a suspicion forms in his mind.

“You’re teasing me,” he says, too off-balance to form anything like a snappy comeback on his tongue. Then he looks back and the bartender is leaning against the counter, pushing a drink across the bar at him like he conjured it out of thin air. He’s still smirking.

“I’m teasing you,” he agrees, purring over the words until they sound insincere just from the heat of his voice. “Try that. If it’s not your favorite, it’s on the house.”

Clay can’t get his bearings. The bartender is still staring at him, fixing him with blue eyes darker than any Clay’s ever seen before, his mouth still curved around a smile like he knows all the secrets about Clay the blond has forgotten about himself. When he reaches for the drink he’s not thinking at all, lifts it to his mouth without looking down at the glass.

There’s a burst of mint across his tongue, cool and clean and followed hard with the sweet of blackberry, the flavor turning tart in the last lingering chill of the mint. He nearly spits it back out, not from distaste as much as shock, drawing back over the counter like he’s in physical danger from the bartender’s widening smile.

“How did you  _do_  that?” he blurts, and the smirk slips wide, turns into a full-blown grin for a moment.

“I’ll put it on your tab, then.” The bartender straightens from his lean against the counter, straightens his shoulders, and offers the most precise bow Clay has ever seen in his life.

“Akane,” he says, clear and projecting loud enough that Clay would be able to hear him even if the room were as full as it will be, later in the night. “And you?”

“Sizemore,” Clay says without thinking. Then he processes the name the other gave, the likelihood that it’s a first and not a surname, and backtracks desperately. “I mean. Clay. Clay Sizemore. Sorry, I. Hi.”

Akane’s smirking again. “Hi, Clay Sizemore.” He glances out to the middle of the counter, where a handful of overexcited girls are beginning to gather. “Enjoy that. I’ll be back to take care of you whenever you need anything else.”

Clay’s mouth is full of the taste of mint and blackberries when Akane winks at him, without even enough alcohol yet in his system to convince himself that he’s imagining things. Everything is hitting him full-on, the dark of the hair hair-covering Akane’s face and the glow of blue behind his glasses -- why glasses, that’s a low blow, how is Clay supposed to resist those as well as everything else? -- the way his vest fits over the crisp white of his shirt and the grace to his movements when he walks, like he’s dancing as much as stepping.

He flirts with the girls too. Clay’s watching with an excess of care, trying to decide if he should let himself hope or not, but before he’s made a decision his drink is half-empty and Akane is back, purring suggestions at him and turning the full force of that smile on Clay again until he agrees to something he doesn’t know the name of but that Akane swears he will like. Clay gets lost in the sweep of bottles, the swirl of color and motion that Akane makes look like a dance, and by the time a drink significantly prettier than any he has ever had before is deposited in front of him he’s certain that he’s going to make a complete fool of himself tonight.

He’s not wrong. By the time the bar is full Clay is tipsy where he sits, four drinks in and ready to do anything at all to draw Akane’s attention to him. He’s begged for a number and collected a napkin which he has since lost amidst the array of damp white squares on the bar in front of him, but he’s not overmuch concerned about the future at the moment. Right now he’s caught in the twist of Akane’s wrists when he drizzles liqueur into almost-finished drinks, the crisp motion of his shoulders when he shakes together a fresh drink, the way his smile looks in profile from the other end of the bar, when he can’t see Clay watching.

Clay is in deep, deep trouble. Luckily, this isn’t something he’ll have to worry about until the morning.


	2. Excuses

Clay wakes to a piercing headache.

The first thing he notices is the pain, a dull ache across his forehead and tightening at his temples when he rolls over in an attempt to ease the struggle of waking up. The motion twists his stomach, sets his skin prickling unpleasantly at the contact with his sheets, and he’s just starting to groan around his sore throat when he realizes that his phone is ringing.

It takes him longer than it should to find it. He can hear the sound filling the room but he can’t place it, even when he blinks blearily at the likely locations on the floor alongside the bed or atop the desk in the corner of the room. Then he notices the buzzing, vibration to match the sound against his hip, and it’s at  _that_  point he realizes he’s still wearing his jeans, his phone still crammed into the pocket of such.

He’s amazed it’s still ringing by the time he finally fumbles the phone out of his pocket and to his ear. He doesn’t recognize the number on the screen, though the area code says it’s from somewhere relatively nearby, and when he answers “Hello?” he doesn’t recognize his own voice either.

The laugh on the other end of the line is far more familiar, triggering hazy recollections Clay can’t quite place. “You sound terrible. Have you had any water yet this morning?”

“No,” Clay manages. “I just woke up.”

“It’s almost noon,” the voice points out. “Shouldn’t you have been out of bed before this, Clay?”

“I was up really late!” Clay protests. Then, as his thoughts catch up with his mouth: “Wait, who  _is_  this?”

That laugh again, bright and without the faintest trace of hurt feelings. “You don’t remember me? I’m hurt, really, after all my effort to be memorable last night.”

Clay blinks at the ceiling, tries to sort through the haze of the night before. He went to his usual bar, was considering what to order and --

“Akane?” He sits up -- too fast, as it turns out, the movement comes with a burst of pain. “Wh-- how did you get my number?”

“The same way you got mine,” Akane purrs. “I asked for it.” Another laugh, shorter this time. “Though I managed to not lose yours.”

Clay reaches without thinking for his pocket, fumbles for the napkin he can remember but can’t find. “How did you know I lost it?”

“You told me.” Clay can hear Akane’s smile, can make out the amusement in the other’s voice even as he flinches under the pulse of pain across his forehead. “Near the end of the night, just before you wrote  _your_  number on your tab and begged me to call you.”

“Oh god.” Clay’s face goes hot, his headache forgotten in the wave of self-consciousness. “I didn’t.”

“You did.” Akane clears his throat around the shape of a laugh while Clay groans, embarrassment too strong to pretend he’s not crimson with apology.

“I am so, so sorry,” he manages. “I swear I don’t usually try to pick up my bartender, really, it was just that you were so cute and you made me my favorite drink and you kept winking at me, and when you gave me your number I thought maybe I had a shot but then I lost it and I am so sorry.”

“Cute, huh?” Akane repeats, and Clay realizes, again, what he has just said.

“Fuck.” He covers his face with his hand. “Forget I said that. In fact, forget every stupid thing I did last night, please.”

“I’d have to forget  _you_ ,” Akane teases. “And I don’t have any intention of doing that, given that I called you back.”

“Oh.” Clay opens his eyes, lets his hand drop. “Why  _did_  you call me?”

“I wanted to take you out for breakfast,” Akane says, like this is a completely ordinary thing to say the morning after an extremely drunken flirtation. “Since your hangover is at least partially my fault, isn’t it?”

“Uh,” Clay stammers. “Yeah?”

“Is that a yes?” Akane sounds like he’s laughing; Clay wonders, for a moment, if he always sounds that way, like he’s on the verge of amusement.

“I--” Clay whines, feeling the same sense of being in massively over his head that hit him the night before when Akane slid his first drink towards him. “I just woke up, I need, like, a shower and probably a whole bunch of aspirin.”

“And a glass of water,” Akane suggests. “Meet me in two hours?”

“What?” Clay asks.

“Do you like pastries?” Akane continues. “There’s this cafe downtown that has excellent coffee and the best croissants I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Uh.” Clay blinks, tries to collect his place in the conversation. “The one with the dancing mascot out in front of it?”

“Oh good, you know it.” Akane sounds delighted, pleased as a teacher with a clever student. “I can meet you there at two, once you’ve had a chance to recover a little.”

“Okay,” Clay says, because it seems like the right thing to say.

“Great!” He’s purring again, his voice dropping low and resonant so every word sounds like an innuendo in and of itself. “I’ll see you soon, Clay.”

The line goes dead before Clay can form his lips around a goodbye, or a protest, or any of the infinite questions that are fluttering in the back of his head. He’s left blinking at the wall of his bedroom, feeling like he’s still significantly more drunk than he has any right to be under the circumstances.

Then he processes Akane’s declaration -- that he has a  _date_ , in  _two hours_  -- and tries to get out of bed so fast he trips on the blankets and nearly falls as he topples out to stumble to the bathroom.

He’ll have time to worry about  _why_  Akane wants to see him again after he figures out how to get himself presentable in time to make his impromptu date.


	3. Caffeine

Clay  _really_  isn’t sure what’s happening anymore.

He did make it to the cafe more or less on time; fifteen minutes late is a small price to pay for the opportunity it bought him of taking a shower, he feels, and even as it is he’s rushed and flustered, not even completely convinced Akane will even be at the shop when he arrives. But when he steps in the door there’s a wave from the back of the room, a smirk waiting for him from across the tiniest table Clay’s ever seen in his life, and by the time he’s maneuvered across the crowded floor he’s had more than enough time to process that he is apparently on a  _date_  with someone who looks far better the morning after than he has any right to and work himself up to appropriate levels of nervous.

“Hi,” he manages as he catches his foot on the strap of someone’s bag, stumbles forward the last few steps to teeter himself back into balance alongside the table. “Shit. I mean. Hello. Hi. Morning.”

“It’s afternoon,” Akane points out. He has his head propped on his hand, is smirking without even making an attempt to hide his expression behind the edge of his coffee cup. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Clay agrees without thinking through the answer. “Maybe a little drunk still but at least I took a shower before I got here.” It’s not until he’s finished speaking that he realizes that might have been too much information, feels himself starting to burn crimson across his cheeks. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Akane asks, sounding deeply amused. “I did wake you up with a phone call this morning and demand you come out to meet me. After I was responsible for your state last night, too. If anyone should be apologizing, it ought to be me.”

“Oh.” Clay blinks, tries to follow this chain of thought. “You don’t have to, I mean. I don’t mind, I’m just surprised you called me at all.”

Akane’s smile catches the light, goes knife-edge sharp before he leans back against the bench and drops himself into the dimmer lighting against the wall. “I didn’t say I  _was_  apologizing,” he points out; then, while Clay is still sputtering in an attempt to backtrack, “Sit down before you fall over again.”

“Ah.” This sounds like a decent idea, teasing half-insult notwithstanding. Then Clay looks down for a chair, finds none; when he looks back out over the rest of the room it’s nothing but a cluster of people, voices and movement and laughter completely disguising the presence of an empty seat anywhere.

“Someone asked for the other chair here about ten minutes ago,” Akane says. When Clay looks over the other is watching him, smiling again. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it. Sorry. You’ll have to share with me.”

The bench looks a lot smaller than it did when Clay came in, even with Akane sliding over to make room for him. Still, sitting down seems safer, and next to Akane might actually be better for Clay’s composure than across from him.

“Thanks.” He comes around the edge of the table, fits himself into the space Akane made for him. They’re closer than Clay expected, their knees bumping together as he moves and so close their shoulders touch with no effort on his part at all.

Akane, for his part, seems wholly unperturbed by their nearness. He’s pushing his cup across the table, until Clay reaches out to set his hand against the side. He stares at the dark surface of the liquid as Akane talks; it seems safer, to look at Akane’s drink instead of Akane’s eyes.

“The baristas here are really good.” A simple statement of fact, casual even in the resonant purr of Akane’s voice, but he’s leaning in, pressing their legs together under the cover of the table. “Do you drink much coffee?”

“Uh,” Clay stalls, picks up the cup to buy himself more time. “Not really.” He takes a sip, quick and unthinking, and flavor bursts across his tongue in a wave of sweet and bitter so strong it wipes even his nervousness clear out of his head.

“Jesus,” and he’s pushing the cup away, lifting a hand to his mouth while he waits for the syrupy-sweet to fade from his tongue. “Did you dump the entire sugar container in that?”

Akane’s laugh is different, now, warm and sincere; Clay is looking at him before he realizes he is going to, staring into blue eyes gone soft with the amusement at his lips, and for a moment he’s catching contagious delight in his own throat before he can remember to be nervous.

“Okay, so sugar’s not your thing.” Akane reclaims his cup, takes a sip with apparent pleasure in the taste. “Good to know.”

“Yeah,” and the stress is gone, Clay’s tension slipped through his fingers and vanished as if it had never existed in the first place. “Lattes are really the only coffee I drink.”

“Got it,” Akane declares, and he’s moving, getting to his feet like this decides something.

“Wait!” Clay reaches out without thinking, closes his finger on the other’s sleeve. Akane pauses, look back with a dark eyebrow raised at Clay’s touch, and Clay can feel himself starting to burn with self-consciousness. “Where are you going?”

Akane looks down at Clay’s fingers at his sleeve, but when he turns his wrist it’s to lift his fingers to bump his knuckles against the underside of the other’s arm rather than to pull away. “I’m going to buy you a latte.” His smile is flashing again, flickering heat up into his eyes, and Clay is blushing all over his face now but he can’t look away. “My treat.”

Clay lets his hand drop, his skin still working to achieve new levels of crimson while he clears his throat. “Okay. Yeah. Sounds good.”

Akane laughs as he turns away again. Clay is pretty sure the amusement is at his expense, even as gentle as it is, but Akane’s blue eyes linger on him as the other turns away, and he’s still smiling unconsciously by the time Akane returns with his offering of coffee in hand.

Being overwhelmed isn’t always a bad thing.


	4. Sugar

Akane is much easier to be around when he’s a little bit drunk.

It’s not really that his personality changes much, or at all, and it’s not just that Clay has had a drink or two himself and has taken on the resulting relaxation that comes with mild intoxication. It’s mostly just that the alcohol takes the sharp edge off Akane’s eyes, smooths away the intensity that makes Clay feel a little like he’s being mocked, until Akane’s perpetual smile seems more like sincere happiness at being in the other’s company than amusement at the blond’s expense.

“Why did you want to come here?” Clay asks when Akane comes back from the bar with another pair of glasses, these ones filled with just water instead of the sweet-stirred alcoholic drinks he has been bringing back. “Isn’t this, I dunno, betrayal or something?”

“Oo, I like that,” Akane purrs, and the alcohol has had no effect on that; the vibration in his throat is as solid as a touch at Clay’s skin, makes the blond laugh in a startled burst of self-conscious pleasure. “Yes, I’m a dangerous traitor to my organization, double-crossing anyone for the least motivation!” He leans back against the bench, lifts the water glass to his mouth with his pinkie finger extended out dramatically. “And yet I have some indefinable charm, as irresistible to others as a flame is to moths. Is it the danger? Is it my dashing good looks?” He sets the glass back down, leans in over the table like he has a secret to share. “Is it that they like the way my work uniform fits?”

“Oh my god,” Clay groans, leaning back in his chair as Akane dissolves into laughter. “None, it’s  _none_  of that.” He crumples one of their napkins into a ball, throws it at the other like the impact will stop his giggling. It doesn’t -- Akane catches the projectile with no discernable effort and leans back in -- but his laughter fades anyway, settling back into the easy smile he’s had all night.

“Seriously, though, it’s just kind of weird to drink at the place I work.” Akane takes another drink of water, less the angle of his pinkie this time. “Don’t you like where I brought you?”

“What?” Clay blinks, backtracks through the conversation in a desperate bid for the part where Akane got the idea he didn’t like it here. “No, that’s not it at all. I mean, I don’t usually come here myself but it’s really nice! I just usually go to the other.”

“Aww,” Akane pouts, tipping his chin down so he can raise an eyebrow at Clay over the top of his glasses. “You didn’t just come there to seduce the hot new bartender?”

“ _God_ ,” Clay groans, leans back against the bench and angles an arm over his face while the sound of Akane’s laughter pulls an unwilling smile over his mouth. “ _No_ , it’s just more expensive here than at yours.”

“It’s a good thing you’ve got yourself a boyfriend to buy drinks for you, then,” Akane says. Clay makes a hopeless whimper, intended protest and just sounding like resignation, and when he lets his arm drop Akane has claimed his empty cocktail glass and is eating the leftover cherries out of the unmelted ice.

Clay doesn’t reach to reclaim it. It’s a lost cause, he knows, and besides it’s not like he was doing anything with the ice and fruit but drawing with the condensation against the table. It seems more worthwhile like this, anyway, watching Akane’s attention fixate on the cup instead of on Clay and cataloging the unconscious rhythm of Akane’s lips and teeth as he pulls the red fruit free of the stem.

Clay doesn’t realize he’s staring until Akane looks up, his eyes clear of any trace of teasing, and catches the blond with his lips parted and gaze wholly focused on the other’s mouth. Clay drags his attention up immediately but there’s no point; he knows he’s been caught, is bracing for the smirk and the teasing comment with a preemptive blush before Akane has even spoken.

Akane blinks, his eyes looking almost black in the dim lighting. When he moves it’s to lick his lips free of the lingering syrup, rather than to speak, and when he glances down it’s only to drop the stem back in the emptied glass and push it aside.

Clay isn’t sure what’s going on. He’s still blushing, he can feel the heat sweeping out over his cheeks with the painful ache of self-consciousness, and for once he deserves the teasing, he  _was_  staring at Akane’s mouth and his thoughts were precisely what Akane will suggest they were. But there’s no quick-witted comment from across the table, no sharp-edged smirk or sparkling glance, and Akane is actually not looking at him at all. He’s looking at the table, instead, moving the glasses they’ve accumulated off to the side like he’s completely focused on organizing the space.

“Akane?” Clay asks after a moment, as the other still hasn’t looked at him and he begins to wonder if this isn’t anger, if somehow he stepped over a line he wasn’t supposed to cross.

Akane pushes the last glass aside, hard enough that it clinks off the edge of two of the others, and when Clay blinks the space between them has become completely clear, the evidence of their drinks collected on the edge of the table and leaving the gap between himself and Akane empty. There’s a rush of adrenaline in his veins, some surge of intuition that he can’t quite parse, and then Akane reaches over to brace his hand on the flat surface, and when Clay looks up the other is leaning in towards him.

“ _Oh_ ” Clay says aloud, a burst of understanding rushing through him like he’s been shocked, and Akane crosses the last distance between them and presses their lips together while the sound is still clinging to Clay’s tongue.

He tastes sweet, like the candy-sugar of the cherries he was eating out of Clay’s glass, but there’s a burn there, too, the tang of alcohol at his lips and hot at his tongue. Clay’s heart is pounding out of control in his chest, his breathing sticking far back in his throat, but he’s leaning in without thinking about it at all, turning his head and shutting his eyes so the drag of Akane’s lips against his own is all he’s focusing on. There’s the hum of a laugh, the sound gone soft and warm from pressing against Clay’s lips, and fingers coming up to drag through his hair, smoothing the strands down so Akane’s hand can curl in against the back of his neck and hold him in place while Akane’s lips part and his tongue slides gently against Clay’s lips.

Clay doesn’t usually like the sticky-sweet of cherries left over from his cocktails, but with the flavor clinging to Akane’s lips, he’s not sure he’s ever tasted anything sweeter.


	5. Distraction

It turns out Akane’s mouth is perhaps more distracting when he’s  _not_  talking than when he  _is_.

Clay had thought maybe he could regain some level of self-control if he could keep the smirk off the other’s mouth, maybe keep him off-balance with the warm press of kissing and the hope that he can maintain more self-awareness than the other. He probably should have guessed this would backfire, though admittedly he hadn’t expected it to turn out quite as poorly in regards to his own composure as it has. Or he’s just not resisting as well as he could be. He feels he can perhaps be excused from this, though, as losing to Akane apparently results in a mouth trailing soft kisses against the loosened collar of his shirt and fingers working up under the hem to trail across his stomach.

“You’re  _trouble_ ,” Clay observes to the ceiling of Akane’s living room, too warm and overheated to keep the words safe on his tongue. “You’re like...like...some kind of seductive demon.”

Akane’s laugh is warm at his skin, the fingers at his stomach dragging sideways until Clay shudders from the ticklish sensation, tries to wiggle free reflexively without any success at loosening himself from Akane’s weight pinning his legs down.

“There’s a word for that,” Akane points out, drawing back so he can blink slow at Clay, can smile down at the blond’s expression. Clay takes a breath, tries to remember how to talk while watching Akane’s eyes, and then the other leans in to kiss his mouth and everything hazes away again. Akane’s licking against his lower lip and Akane’s hands are rumpling up under his shirt, and when Clay gets a hand up Akane’s shirt is still buttoned and on and tucked into his slacks, even.

“Damn,” Clay manages when Akane pulls back and slides his hands free so he can work open the buttons down the front of Clay’s shirt. “I. I am pretty sure this isn’t fair.”

“What about this isn’t fair?” Akane asks as the fabric comes open under his fingers. “You’re free to reciprocate if you want. Your hands aren’t tied, are they?” The shirt goes loose, falls away from Clay’s skin, and Clay is just taking a breath of shivery reaction to the chill of the air on his bared chest when Akane comes in to press himself against the blond’s shoulder. Even with all his clothes on he’s burning hot, flushing all of Clay’s skin warm from the brief contact, and Clay is arching up without thinking, tipping himself off the smooth of Akane’s couch to get as close to the other as he can.

“ _Ah_ ,” and he is reaching out, his fingertips are dragging across the soft give of Akane’s shirt and catching into the dark of the other’s hair. “A-Akane, what are you  _doing_?”

“Was I not clear?” Akane purrs, the words sliding into suggestion as his fingers slide around Clay’s hip, press against the curve of the blond’s back. Clay can feel the motion of Akane’s lips against his chest, warm-damp friction sticking like the taste of sugar, and there’s another hand, too, curling into a hold at his hip while Akane’s knees fit against Clay’s, the blond’s thigh sliding up high between the other’s legs. The feel of the other against him, of the other  _hard_  against him, is enough to wipe away whatever protests Clay might have had left after the other’s rhetorical question, the more so when Akane grinds himself down against the resistance of Clay’s leg.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Clay whimpers, pushes himself half-upright more with force of will than actual deliberate intention. His head is spinning, his pulse pounding frantic in his veins, and Akane is lifting his head to blink heat-hazed blue eyes up at him and it’s just making his chest go tighter with desire. “Akane, we--we can’t.”

“Why not?” Akane asks. He shifts his weight up higher to come in range of Clay’s mouth, lets his gaze drop ostentatiously slowly to the blond’s lips. “Are you seeing someone else?”

“What?” Clay blinks, reaches for some context for that question that makes any sense. “ _No_ , of course I’m not.”

“It’s been over a month,” Akane points out. “Is it that you don’t want to?”

“Uh,” Clay says, coherently.

Akane’s smile twists at the corners, like he’s trying to fight it back and completely failing. “We’ve been dating exclusively for a while,” he says, each word slow and careful. He’s letting his hold at Clay’s back go, trailing his hand up to the blond’s shoulder instead. “And you don’t  _seem_  like you want me to stop.” He pauses, his fingers bracing at Clay’s shoulder, tongue sliding over his lower lip before those blue eyes come back to meet and hold the blond’s gaze. “Are you  _objecting_  to me jerking you off on my couch?”

All Clay’s air leaves his body at once, a rush of an exhale that sounds shaky like a groan. He can feel the way blood surges to his cock, the motion of his body going immediately hard too clear for Akane to mistake it, and in the first heartbeat of heat it’s difficult to put the words together into sense.

Then, “Wait,” a point of focus, a critical question. “You’re only seeing me too?”

Akane’s laugh is bright and instant, shocking in its volume but laughing any of the teasing edge the sound usually has.

“Of  _course_  I’m only seeing you,” he says, and when he pushes gently at Clay’s shoulder the blond tips back, lets his weight fall unresisting against the soft off the cushions. “You think I have the time for this level of seduction on more than one person?”

“I thought--” and Clay stalls out, uncertain whether it’s more self-deprecation or praise for the other that he wants to express.

Akane’s eyes are soft, still, soft like they were the first time he kissed Clay, soft like they have been more and more, recently. “Give yourself some credit,” he says, his touch at Clay’s shoulder coming up to ruffle through the other’s hair. “You were worth calling back even when I knew you had lost my number.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Clay says, flushing just at the reminder, and Akane laughs and rocks back over his knees, pulling away from the pressed-close friction with the other in exchange for the use of both his hands. Clay can feel himself going hotter still at even the glancing contact of Akane’s fingers at the tight-stretched front of his jeans, but the other is still talking, the usual purr of his voice more soothing now than it is teasing.

“Don’t you remember how this whole relationship has gone?” Akane asks. Clay can feel the button on his jeans sliding free, his zipper easing open without catching. “What about this has made you think I’m not completely into you?”

“I just--” Clay starts, and Akane has his jeans open, there’s just the thin of his boxers between skin-to-skin contact. The thought makes him choke, bleeds all the coherency out of his mind, until what he says is “Oh god, Akane,” instead of something more relevant to the conversation.

“Because let me be perfectly clear,” Akane says. His fingers come up, skim across slightly safer ground at Clay’s hips, then push down and slide back, dipping under the edge of the blond’s boxers as he goes. “I’ve been thinking about sucking your cock since the first time I saw you try one of my drinks.”

“Oh my  _god_ ,” Clay blurts, and Akane’s hands are pushing his clothes aside and Akane’s fingers are at him, and that’s it for any intelligible words. He’s sucking in air instead, sharp and so hard he coughs on the inhale, and Akane is ducking in over him and those delicate fingers are curling around him, sensation rushing out into Clay’s body and jolting up his spine until he can’t help but thrust up helplessly against the resistance. Akane laughs again, purring sound spilling like liquid against Clay’s stomach, and Clay barely notices when he slides his weight down, stretches out against the end of the couch so he’s lying between Clay’s knees instead of kneeling there. His fingers are too distracting, his grip too steady and his movements too graceful, Clay’s hands are winding into his hair with no thought of the self-consciousness he usually has about initiating contact with the other. All his blood is rushing fast through his veins, his heartbeat falling into rhythm with Akane’s touch, and when Akane laughs again Clay whimpers without meaning to, any restraint he might have had gone with the gentle friction of Akane’s hand stroking over him.

Akane is moving, shifting up and sideways, and at first Clay doesn’t think about it. He can’t trust himself to look down, doesn’t think he could keep himself from short-circuiting at the visual of Akane’s fingers sliding up over him, so he’s staring at the ceiling instead, his awareness of everything but Akane’s grip on his fading out into unimportance. It’s effective, for the moment, but it also means he has no real warning of what Akane’s about to do, nothing except for the deep inhale against his hip before there’s motion, Akane’s hand sliding to brace against the base of his cock instead of the head. Clay takes a breath, seizing the opportunity to catch an inhale even as his body aches for more, and then there’s heat, wet warm suction sliding over him, and all his air slides free in a choking gasp.

It’s overwhelming, as so much about Akane is overwhelming. Clay can feel his awareness going hazy, pushed to the back of his head as something unimportant to be considered later. There’s no conscious thought in him anymore, no embarrassment at the whimpering moans he is making in place or air or the sincerely desperate way he is arching up off the couch to get closer to Akane’s lips. There’s just heat, tension curling tight in his stomach and arcing up his spine like lightning, like Akane is a storm and Clay is the conductor for all his teasing electricity. He’s not even completely clear on what Akane is doing, if he’s just moving his head or licking or sucking or if there might not be the faintest hint of teeth behind the soft of his lips; Clay doesn’t dare look down now, is already too lost to Akane’s control to stand the idea of overstimulating himself with the actual sight of the other’s dark head bent over his hips. He’s shaking anyway, tension winding up taut until he’s arching up off the couch, entirely unable to hold onto the equilibrium that has been so lacking since he met Akane. All he can do is gasp for air, tremble under the spark of Akane’s touch, until he’s not even surprised when Akane’s hold slides free, the other bracing himself at Clay’s hips before he ducks down impossibly far, takes the entirety of Clay’s cock back over his tongue and against his throat. Clay jerks, whines desperate in what he can’t place as either protest or approval, and then Akane starts to  _hum_ , laughter or words either one turning into just the rush of vibration on Clay’s skin, and Clay can’t breathe, his vision is blurring out of all comprehension. All of himself is given over to Akane’s hands, Akane’s lips and Akane’s tongue and Akane’s mouth, the wet-friction of the contact twisting into a knot in his stomach, thrumming almost-panic through his veins until --

Everything gives way all at once. Clay falls back to the couch, all the strength in his body slipping lost from his fingers, and he’s shuddering instead, his breathing sticking oddly in his throat until he’s moaning the shape of Akane’s name as he jerks into orgasm against Akane’s lips. There’s none of the splash of warm stickiness on his skin like he’s used to, just the slide of Akane’s tongue as the other pulls back enough to swallow hard, to lick up against the oversensitive head of Clay’s cock. It makes the blond jolt, laugh breathless and shaky, and it’s not until his gasping has given way to self-conscious overheated laughter that Akane pulls away, rocks back on his heels and lets Clay’s hip go so he can pull the back of his hand over the damp of his lips.

“Oh,” Clay offers, his voice cracking itself into hoarseness before he can call the sound back. “That. Wow.”

Akane’s laugh precedes his motion, gives Clay some warning before a hand presses in over his shoulder and the other leans in over him. “We’re on the same page at last, then.” He tastes like salt when he leans in for a kiss, his mouth faintly sticky and hotter than Clay expects, wet and so warm the blond flushes all over his skin again in spite of the pleasure still flickering in his veins. His hands come out of their own accord, reach for the still-smooth line of Akane’s shirt, and for a moment Clay can see them as they would look to an outsider observer, himself half-dressed and limp with satisfaction while Akane remains as tidy and composed as he ever is.

For once, it’s not intimidating. Maybe it’s Akane’s admission of intent that eases Clay’s self-consciousness, or the pleasure yet lingering in his veins that smooths away the usual stress of contact with the other. But when Clay turns to push Akane against the back of the couch, to pin the other between his shoulders and the back of the furniture, Akane goes without even a breath of hesitation, falls pliant with submission against the support. His eyes are half-lidded, shadowed into blue behind the cover of his glasses, and Clay is reaching without giving himself time to think, pressing his fingers to the taut front of the other’s slacks while Akane is still licking the last of the sticky off his lips. The contact earns him a sharp inhale, the outline of a laugh, and Akane’s shutting his eyes, his lashes shifting to lie dark and heavy across his cheekbones while he sucks in an inhale and lets his weight go slack against the couch.

“Don’t be a tease,” he suggests as Clay grinds his palm in harder, just to see the way Akane’s throat goes taut on some whimper of response.  
“I’m not teasing,” Clay protests. Akane grins without opening his eyes, lifts a hand to rest heavy at Clay’s hip, under the fall of his open shirt. “You’re the one who didn’t stop to take any of your clothes off.”

“You wanna fix that for me?” Akane suggests, and Clay can feel his stomach drop into freefall thrill for a moment. His exhale sounds like a no but he’s moving to give the affirmative, pulling his trembling hand into enough control to tug at the front of Akane’s slacks. The desperation undermines his efforts, grants him no progress at all until Akane laughs and brings his other hand up to help. Then it’s as if they’re in a movie, fabric giving way to Clay’s fingers like the other is his for the taking, until his touch is falling past loosened fabric and pushed-down elastic, dragging over the shivering heat of Akane’s stomach while the hand at his hip clenches tight with anticipation. Clay wants to ask if this is okay, wants to get explicit permission, but when he hesitates Akane rocks his hips up, bucks against his hand before Clay has a chance to frame words on his tongue, and then they’re both sighing shocked heat, Clay fumbling his hand into a proper hold while Akane counters his efforts by the arrythmic motion of his hips. He’s hot to the touch, radiant and burning against Clay’s palm, and his fingers are going tighter too, the grip at Clay’s hip anxious and maybe-bruising from how hard Akane is pressing against him.

“Sorry,” Clay offers, babbling apologies that are pretty clearly unnecessary from the way Akane’s eyelashes are fluttering. “For this instead of…I’m not good at blowjobs.”

Akane laughs, the sound rippling liquid as birdsong in his throat. “ _Yet_ ,” he says, and then Clay’s hand slips and Akane jerks, arches hard against his hand and groans wordless reaction, and Clay can’t think about anything clearly anymore. He wants to brace Akane in place but that would take both hands; all he can do is let the other tremble against the couch, gasp himself breathless and melting an inch away from Clay’s lips, and even then the idea of leaning in to kiss him never crosses Clay’s mind. He’s too caught by the movement of Akane’s lashes, the faint flicker of color he can see whenever the other’s eyes focus on him for a moment, the telltale soft of pleasure at his lips.

Clay doesn’t have to think at all. His hand is moving on its own, falling into a rhythm that speeds faster until it soothes the anxious jerk of Akane’s hips, leaves the other still against him but for the trembling that hasn’t stopped since Clay touched him. He’s staring at Akane’s lips when the other opens his eyes, Clay’s attention wandering and hazy until the soft give of Akane’s mouth tightens into a smile, the expression enough of a cue for him to look up to meet the flickering heat of the other’s gaze.

“Clay,” he says, his lips shifting gentle around the sound. “Clay, don’t stop, I’m--” and his eyes are shutting, his whole face going blissful and calm, and he’s shuddering against the support of Clay’s shoulders and coming against the other’s fingers. Clay is breathing harder than he realized, his inhales sticking fast like they’re falling into sync with Akane’s, and it’s not until Akane sighs and loosens the grip of his fingers that Clay can let himself relax into the support of the couch.

Neither of them speak for a minute. Clay can feel warmth seeping into him like a physical weight, bearing him down to the couch until he thinks he might be able to fall asleep right here, like this, with most of his clothes on and his skin flushed hot and damp from clinging sweat. After a minute he thinks to let his hold on Akane go, snatches his hand back with a blush he can feel burning all across his face, but when Akane laughs there’s no edge to it at all. It’s a giggle more than anything else, low and delighted in his throat, and when he reaches up to twist his fingers into Clay’s hair and pull the blond into a kiss, Clay forgets about anything but the soft warmth of his mouth.

Clay figures he was doomed from the moment he saw that mouth in the first place.


	6. Dawn

The main inconvenience about dating a bartender, Clay has decided, is the mismatch in their sleep cycles.

It’s not so bad in the mornings. Clay prefers to sleep in as late as he can anyway, and if Akane stays the night he sleeps so soundly Clay has yet to wake him, including the time he dropped a pot onto his foot and cursed so loudly his neighbors pounded on the wall in incoherent demand for silence. If Clay is over at Akane’s, it’s not any more of an issue; Akane’s kitchen is less familiar to a sleep-groggy Clay, but he has a whole array of exciting gadgets, and if one of them remembers to set the timer on the futuristic coffeemaker it will have hot caffeine ready and waiting for Clay as soon as he stumbles his way out into the kitchen.

So it’s not the mornings that are the problem. The problem are the nights.

Clay is sound asleep when Akane comes in. Given that it’s nearly four in the morning, this isn’t an unreasonable state, any more than the fact that he mumbles something incoherent and protesting before he can wake up enough to make sense of the arm sliding around his waist.

“Hi,” Akane breathes against the back of his ear. His skin is chill from the outdoor air, he smells like sugar and the lingering traces of the cologne he always wears to work. “Wake up, Clay.”

“Ungf,” Clay groans, pushing weakly at the arm around him. “Sleeping.”

“Not anymore you’re not,” Akane says again. Clay groans, turns his head farther into the pillow in an attempt to escape, but this only results in Akane sliding in against his back, sprawling nearly atop him until the blond finally realizes that he’s not feeling any fabric at all, nothing against his back except the soft of Akane’s bare skin.

“Where’re your clothes?” he asks, turning his head like he’ll be able to see. He can’t, of course; it’s too dark to make out anything but the outline of Akane’s always-rumpled hair and the flash of white when he smiles.

“Off,” he says vaguely. A leg comes in over Clay’s hip -- a very bare leg -- and when Akane leans in closer there’s no question that he’s stripped down completely, even with the interruption of Clay’s pajama pants still between them.

“Morning,” Clay suggests into the pillow, a desperate attempt to head this off before his body catches up to what Akane is initiating and decides that he’s awake after all. “Lemme sleep.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Akane soothes. His mouth is very close to the back of Clay’s neck, his lips dragging against the short strands of blond hair. There are fingers sliding down Clay’s waist, feeling out the lines of his stomach while Akane’s touch veers dangerously close to the edge of the other’s low-slung pants. “Just roll over and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I was  _asleep_ ,” Clay whimpers, the sound jumping high in his throat as Akane’s fingers cross the boundary of the elastic waistband and drag against the line of his hip and thigh. “It’s four in the morning.”

“Sorry,” Akane says, sounding not sorry in the least. His fingers slip sideways, glancing contact against the head of Clay’s cock to urge it to the hardness it’s already considering. “I let you sleep last time.”

“ _Once_ ,” Clay protests. It’s a frail complaint, when the warmth of sleep is converting seamlessly into heat in his blood, his cock going hard under Akane’s touch before his mind is totally alert. “You let me sleep  _one time_. I should never have given you a key.”

“You’d just have to get up to let me in if you hadn’t,” Akane purrs. “Roll over, Clay.”

Clay does. It’s a minor satisfaction that he moves before Akane is off him, that the movement dumps the other unceremoniously onto the other side of the bed, but Akane doesn’t seem to be fazed. He laughs, the sound shivering heat directly into Clay’s blood, and when he comes back in his mouth is hot at the other’s shoulder.

“I’ll stop if you want me to stop,” he says as his hand slide back down, his fingers curling into a hold around Clay’s length. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“Oh my god,” Clay wails, a plea to some uncaring deity rather than to the sex demon he has apparently let into his life. Akane strokes up over him, his thumb pressing in against the head of the blond’s cock, and Clay can feel his hips jerk up in involuntary reaction without having the least hope of restraining the movement. “No, I don’t want you to stop.”

“Are you sure?” Akane teases. His fingers slide back down, his grip going looser like he’s maybe about to let go. “I did wake you up, after all.”

Clay can’t even answer that. His throat goes tight on rejection of this idea, his exhale coming out as a desperate whimper, and it’s wholly incoherent but Akane’s laugh says he understands.

“I thought so,” he’s saying, and then he lets go anyway. Clay wants to complain but words are difficult, still lost somewhere in the haze of fading dreams and the distraction of heat in his blood. Besides, Akane is moving down his body, tugging at the edge of his pajama pants, and if the loss of the clothing leaves Clay briefly chilled in the night air the warm weight of Akane moving in to straddle him more than compensates.

“Fuck,” Clay says, reaches out to close his fingers on the other’s hips. Akane laughs again, tips himself forward like he’s thrusting against the hold, and for a moment the heat of his cock is bumping against Clay’s own erection. It makes Clay flush hot with immediate response, drops his eyes closed to the darkness in the room and pulls another whining moan from his throat. Akane leans in, stretches out over Clay for a moment, and Clay knows vaguely what he’s doing but it’s too difficult to offer any help, impossible to collect himself enough to reach up and fumble his way to the bottle somewhere by the head of the bed.

It doesn’t matter anyway. Akane is straightening almost before Clay has considered the futility of moving, rocking back so his weight is centered on the blond’s thighs. There’s not enough sensation to soothe the heat in Clay’s body, the tension of delayed desire is pulling him farther into consciousness with every breath, but he stays quiet, keeps his eyes shut and tries to let exhaustion lull him back to a half-doze while he waits for Akane.

Then Akane makes a sound, a breathless little gasp of noise, and Clay’s eyes open of their own accord to stare sightless at the ceiling, Clay’s breathing goes still and shocked in his chest. The room is very quiet, absent the rhythm of his own inhales; he can hear Akane letting his breath ease past his lips, can hear the creak of the mattress as the other shifts his weight and can hear the slick sound of liquid catching against itself.

“Oh god,” he says again, some desperate reaction to the surge of heat that rushes through him. “Akane, are--”

“Just give me a minute,” Akane says. It’s supposed to be low, affection and teasing wrapped together into seduction, but there’s a strain under the sound, fought-back reaction to friction Clay can’t see, and that is far more effective than a more manufactured pleasure. He wants to reach out, fumble through the darkness to touch his fingers to Akane’s wrist, to drag his own fingers through the slick of the lube the other must have spread over his skin, but he’s locked in place by heat and surprise tangled together, the possibility of what Akane is doing to himself almost better in his dazed thoughts than knowing the actual reality. There’s that slick sound, still, the catch of slippery skin sliding over itself, and Akane’s breathing is coming harder although he’s trying to stay quiet, his inhales catching louder and louder with every moment of delay.

“Holy shit,” Clay chokes into the darkness, staring blind at the ceiling he can’t see. “Jesus, Akane.”

A laugh, shaky but sincere for all that it’s trembling audibly. “You don’t want me to stop, do you?” The last word fades into a gasp, Akane responding to something Clay can’t see, and Clay’s fingers tighten involuntarily, press hard against the sharp edges of Akane’s hips.

“ _Akane_ ,” he says instead of a response, the name begging for relief from the only person that matters, now. Akane lets his breath go, the exhale sharp and loud with meaning, and then there’s a touch at Clay’s shoulder, fingers bracing against his collarbone while Akane rocks up to shift his angle.

“Okay.” He’s breathless, trembling everywhere they’re touching; when his free hand comes down at Clay’s other shoulder his fingers are slick, his skin so hot it’s a suggestion all in itself. “You can just relax,” Akane says, low and soothing as if he’s entirely oblivious to the grip Clay has on his hips, the force he’s exerting to help the other slide forward over the bed until their hips line up. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Jesus,” Clay says again, helpless and overheated. When he lets one of his hands go it’s to reach up, to fit his fingers into the dark shadows of Akane’s hair and settle his touch against the back of the other’s neck. “Please, Akane.”

He’s not sure what exactly he’s asking for, between the heavy exhaustion in his body and the more insistent burn of desire low in his stomach and along his spine. But Akane smiles again, that bright flash of teeth visible even in the near-darkness, and when he moves it’s to give Clay exactly what he wanted. His hips slide slow, his skin sliding against the blond’s cock until Clay is shuddering before he’s even inside the other; then there’s a catch of friction, Akane’s hips tilting forward, and he’s sliding down onto Clay’s length, the heat of his body pressing so tight around the other Clay loses track of where he is for a moment. He doesn’t realize he’s thrusting up, doesn’t process the reflexive motion at all until he hears Akane’s breath hitch into a choked-off groan and realizes how sharply his back is arched.

“Shit,” he gasps, falls back to the bed as fast as he came up. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t--”

Akane’s the one who moves fast, this time. He drops himself down all at once, the slick slide of their bodies coming together bringing a flush of heat with it, and it’s Clay’s turn to moan, his head coming back so his throat draws into a taut line of reflexive reaction.

“Clay.” The name comes at a distance, somehow fitting itself around the thud of Clay’s pulse racing to come awake and the surge of heat under all his skin. “I told you I’d take care of it.”

“I--” Clay starts, and Akane moves before he can finish speaking, comes up onto his knees so he can slide himself back down on the other’s length. It’s too much, it’s too hot and too tight and Clay’s heartbeat isn’t keeping up, he feels like he’s sprinting when he’s barely woken up. His fingers tighten again, clenching in against Akane’s hip and the back of the other’s neck, and he doesn’t notice when the hand at his shoulder slides free so Akane can start to stroke up over himself as fast as he’s moving over Clay’s hips. Clay can’t even tell if he’s getting close or not; it’s all just sensation, more than he was expecting to get at this point in the night, and it’s not that he’s  _opposed_  as much as that he’s not sure he can breathe like this, he’s a little bit worried he’s going to pass out if Akane keeps going.

“Holy shit,” and he’s gasping, chanting out a rhythm of sound that is a little encouragement and mostly incoherent cursing. “Fuck,  _fuck_ , Akane that--  _ah_  that, more, holy shit oh my  _god_.”

“Clay,” Akane says, the sound laughing in his throat and soft by the time Clay hears it. “Wasn’t-- _hh_ \--” A pause, the sound of his words breaking off into a gasping exhale as he hesitates, does something with his hips that whites out Clay’s vision for a moment. “W-wasn’t this a good idea?”

“God,” Clay gasps, and “Akane,  _god_ ” as Akane starts to laugh, breathless and trembling over him. Clay’s attention is fraying away, leaving him hazy and too lost to do anything but pant for air between the waves of heat washing over him, each one stronger and longer than the last until there’s almost no pause between them at all. Akane is breathing loud over him, his inhales so harsh they’re whining in his throat, his fingers tensing at Clay’s shoulder as if in echo of the blond’s hold at this hip. Clay’s hearing is going, too, ringing out of importance in his ears, until he barely hears the sharp stuttered inhale Akane takes as a warning. There’s a splash of heat against Clay’s chest, a low wail of sound from Akane’s throat, and everything is hot, Akane’s tensing around Clay and Clay is being swept under by the wash of heat in his blood, everything flickering white and warm and blissful.

He’s not sure how he keeps breathing. It’s not a very important question, as nothing feels very important for the first few endless seconds after. Akane catches his breath, and moves away, slides off the bed and comes back with the soft of probably his discarded shirt to clean the mess off Clay’s stomach, and still Clay doesn’t move, lies still and glowing and content across the top of the sheets instead of under them. It’s not until Akane laughs and says, “Do you want to be back under the blankets?” that Clay thinks to move, rolls sideways and shifts to fit his legs back under the weight of the covers before burying his face back in his briefly-abandoned pillow.

There are fingers at his scalp, a gentle touch lacing into his hair, the press of lips against his shoulder so feather-light Clay almost thinks it’s the edge of a dream, imagination outpacing sleep for once. “I’ll be back,” Akane murmurs, and then he’s gone, and Clay is drifting back to unconsciousness before he hears the sound of Akane’s shower starting from the bathroom.

By the time Akane comes back to climb into bed, the sun is starting to offer a grey glow to the sky, the light starting to be visible even through the pulled-shut blinds. Clay blinks at it for a moment before rolling over to reach out for Akane’s warm-damp skin and faintly illuminated features. The sun will be up soon, and Clay is sure he’ll have some regrets once he has to actually wake up in a few hours. But right now he’s smiling, and Akane is fitting in under the angle of his arm, and when he shuts his eyes sleep comes easy.

They’re both asleep before sunrise.


	7. Flirt

Clay is asking for trouble before he ever sits down.

It was a done deal as soon as he came in the front doors of the bar, as soon as he locked the door to his apartment behind him and headed down familiar streets to his favorite bar. He likes the drinks they serve, likes the quiet, subdued ambiance and the fact that he can savor his drink in peace, but none of that is why he goes.

He gets a glance as soon as he walks in the door, a twist of lips into a smile that speaks to understanding as the bartender looks back down at the glass he’s polishing with elegant fingers Clay knows better than his own.

“Hey there, stranger.” A flick of a wrist, and the glass is pivoting through the air, spinning light off the rim until it lands upright in the bartender’s fingers, clicks into place in front of Clay. “Bet I can guess your favorite drink.”

Clay looks up from the graceful motion of the other’s hands, up into the sparkle of bright blue eyes. He’s smiling before he speaks, helpless to the pleasure even as he reaches for as much of a skeptical eyebrow raise as he can manage. “You know, the last time I bet against a hot bartender it didn’t turn out well for me.”

That gets him a laugh, a flourish that ends with ice cubes tinkling into the bottom of the glass. “The compliment is appreciated.” Liquid, next, flowing viscous with the promise of sugar over the ice in the cup. “What happened that was so terrible?”

“I got his phone number,” Clay says, watching the addition of a second liquid, a splash of additional flavor from a third. “And then I lost it.”

“That sounds like a terrible missed opportunity.” A napkin touches the counter in front of Clay, the glass landing dead center on the square of white.

“Dunno,” Clay says, accepting the cup and taking a sip. The sweet bite of the alcohol slides over his tongue, chilled on the ice and lingering with a rich aftertaste at the far back of his throat. “It didn’t seem to matter much, since he called me the next day. My life’s been a mess ever since.”

“He sounds terrible,” the other offers, leaning over the counter and fluttering dark eyelashes at Clay. “You must really suffer with your hot bartender boyfriend.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if he weren’t such a tease,” Clay sighs, fighting back the laughter that is tickling the back of his throat. “And if he didn’t beg for compliments all the time.”

“Like you mind,” Akane purrs, and Clay does laugh then, his claim to irritation flickering out like a candle in a gust of air. Akane grins back at him, a flash of white teeth and a toss of dark hair, and then he leans in far over the bar, catching Clay’s lips with his for a quick moment of impulsive friction. Clay’s eyelashes flutter, his throat goes warm on a whimper; then he remembers where they are, goes reeling back as Akane pulls away to smirk at him.

“ _Akane_ ,” he gasps, scandalized. “You are  _at work_.”

Akane shrugs one-shouldered. “We’re only just open,” he says, gesturing off-hand at the pair of patrons at the other end of the bar. “And all our regulars knows who you are.”

“You are awful,” Clay protests, attempting and failing to hide his blush behind the rim of the glass as he takes a second sip. “You are going to get fired and I am going to laugh at you.”

“I won’t be fired,” Akane laughs, like the idea is absurd in and of itself. “I’m too popular, everybody likes me.”

That makes Clay frown, brings his glass back down to the counter so he can glare at Akane. “Is that because you flirt with them too?”

Akane blinks; then he smiles, slow and spreading, and Clay knows he’s stepped into a trap before Akane says, “Are you jealous, Clay?”

“No,” Clay insists, swallowing a too-large mouthful of liquid and nearly choking on the burn over his tongue. “No, of course not, that’s...do I need to be?”

He’s not looking up. Akane’s eyes are too dangerous, the quirk of his smile too sharp to trust. But there are fingers at his cheek, a touch ghosting against his jawline, and when Akane says, “I always come home to you” it’s so soft Clay is looking up in spite of his better judgment. Akane’s head is tipped, his mouth gentle on affection, and when he ducks in this time Clay shuts his eyes to the warmth of the other’s mouth without any protest.

“You don’t need to be jealous,” Akane says as they pull away, while he’s still close enough for Clay to feel the brush of the words at his lips. “You’re the only one for me, Clay.”

“Oh my god,” Clay protests, ducking his head to shade the flush that burns across his cheeks as Akane starts to laugh. “I can’t believe you can just say things like that so easily.” But he’s smiling too, the happiness too tight in his chest to contain to a forced frown, and when he looks up he’s not thinking about the customers at the other end of the bar or any other audience they might have. There’s just Akane’s bright eyes and laughing smile, and Clay is pretty sure that’s all he needs.

He was doomed from the start, but he can’t say he minds the fall.


End file.
